


Like Socrates

by barbaricyawp



Series: Socratic Method [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Library Sex, M/M, Public Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: The sequel to "Greek Life" in which Eames pursues Arthur, his TA.





	Like Socrates

**Author's Note:**

> I highly doubt this can be read without first consulting its predecessor, so take a glance at ["Greek Life"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4651464) first. This took me two years to complete so thank you, everyone, for your initial support and involuntary patience.
> 
> Also, Arthur is a wildly bad TA.

* * *

"Y'all fuckboys, like Socrates."

Childish Gambino, "IV. Sweatpants"

* * *

 

 

The thing about fucking his PSYCH 1010 TA: Eames’ life returns to normal immediately. He wakes up at ten, having passed out at 3 AM. When he does finally wake up, it’s to a sour mouth and dry skin. In the warm tent of his duvet, he can smell the sweat and cum that is still between his legs. He rolls into the shower and moisturizes with the good shaving cream.

 

When he emerges, his skin is pink and the house already smells like pot. It’s Saturday, which means Yusef is in the basement—smoking and studying.

 

Eames ambles down the stairs, hand extended for the pipe before Yusef even lifts his head. They exchange pleasantries over the wildness of last night—So crazy, right? —Eames casually wishes they taped it and, disappointment confirmed by Yusef, they didn’t.

 

They lapse into silence so Yusef can return to his Organic Chemistry flashcards. Eames stares ahead at the beanbag, still in the center of the room from where they left it. Though he’s smoking, Eames’ head feels clearer than ever. He’s centered by the clarity of a singular drive: Arthur. Arthur, again.

 

The smell of weed draws a couple of the other brothers into the basement for stoned XBOX. As soon as they turn on the console, Yusef puts his headphones in. Eames isn’t annoyed at them—usually he could play Mortal Kombat with them for hours—but he did want time alone with Yusef.

 

So he slumps into the couch and lets Nash—a new pledge he still can’t quite read—beat his avatar into the ground for a few hours.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until the middle of the week that Eames has a chance to talk to Yusef alone. Eames had psych 1010 lecture on Monday, but he skipped—not because he was bashful around Arthur, but for some other, unknown reason. A real reason, just an unknown one.

 

On Tuesday, Eames stops for coffee before his DRAM1000 elective. It’s an evening class and though Eames feigns a nationalistic dislike for Starbucks, he occasionally folds for a caramel macchiato.

 

He sees Arthur in the line, on the way to the back.  Since he is reading a book, Eames catches him in unaware profile. He looks handsome with dark hair curling over his forehead. He's wearing bluejeans. Arthur never wears jeans when he teaches, so Eames assumes this is not a teaching day.

 

He’s reading a book on schizophrenia that Eames recognizes instantly. It’s titled after a line from a Yeats poem, “The Second Coming,” and his chest lights with excitement in knowing they’ll have something to talk about.

 

But the same unknown reason that kept him from going to class yesterday, keeps him from talking to Arthur now.

 

Eames wilts. This isn’t like him. Arthur is standing just there, reading Eames’ favorite memoir on mental illness. Arthur’s shoulders are hunched over the book, concerned over a line. Eames pines to know what he’s thinking, where he is in the narrative, if the book is really as good as Eames remembers it being.

 

Suddenly, Arthur’s attention snaps up as if his name were called. Or as if he knows he’s being watched. He scans the area in front of him and then, to Eames’ helpless dread, behind him. They meet eyes.

 

Arthur’s brows raise.

 

Eames doesn’t take the time to decipher his expression; he doesn’t feel like coffee or theater class anymore. He feels like going home. So he does.

 

* * *

 

He comes home in a poor mood, throwing his backpack into the corner of the mudroom. It’s during this time, when the other brothers are either in lecture or still asleep, that Eames finds Yusef. Always studying in the basement.

 

“Hey,” he says, testing the waters. Sometimes Yusef is willing to set aside his beloved flashcards. Sometimes Eames wonders why he bothers studying in communal places. Today it’s the former. Yusef sets down his cards.

 

“Hey yourself,” Yusef returns. Eames grins and takes a seat.

 

He’s puzzling through how to bring up Arthur when Yusef, best friend material that he is, brings it up for him. “We’ve nicknamed that the Bang Bag now. I wouldn’t sit in it.”

 

Eames looks down at his seat. He purposefully sat in the beanbag from Friday night. There are teeth marks, Arthur’s teeth marks, in the pleather and Eames thumbs over the indentations.

 

He shrugs. “It’s my throne.”

 

Yusef gets a laugh out of that and Eames grins at him, pleased with himself.

 

“Who was that anyway?” Eames asks. “Do you know?”

 

Yusef shakes his head. “Never seen him before in my life. I think he’s a Freshman or from a different school.”

 

So they don’t know Arthur’s a grad student. That makes sense. Eames can’t imagine the Psychology Department giving the okay on a TA gangbanging his students. (The image of a pink slip signed by the registrar floats into Eames' head momentarily.) Or that TA being banged by one student, to be more accurate.

 

Eames’ chest gets a little hot pairing Arthur, solemn TA in a cardigan, to fucking on the Bang Bag. He swallows thick and pushes the arousal away. Yusef is way too observant to get flustered around.

 

“Who brought him in?”

 

Yusef shrugs. “I only got there an hour before you and he was occupied when I arrived.” Eames has always appreciated this about Yusef: he doesn’t use the common vernacular of the frat house. The common vernacular being brutish vulgarity.

 

Not that Eames doesn’t enjoy speaking the native language.

 

“Why?” Yusef says when Eames is quiet, smiling a little. “Want to make a date?”

 

Eames shrugs and invites himself to Yusef’s bong. “When the shoe fits…”

 

He gets a fist bump and then they decide between _Dazed and Confused_ or _The Godfather_. _Fight Club_ wins out.

 

* * *

 

Eames skipped out on his Wednesday PSYCH 1010 lecture, but Thursday morning he realizes that he has a lab that he can’t miss. His grades are verging on perfect this semester and Eames isn’t some sexually repressed American; he can handle seeing Arthur again.

 

Even after the Starbucks debacle.

 

So he packs his book bag and tucks a few extra condoms in his wallet for luck before heading to the psych building. On the bus over, he reads Yeats' “The Second Coming” on his phone. Though he likes the way the words sound together, he’s still not certain of the overall meaning. This frustrates him, but he’s too proud and much too lazy to read the Sparknotes on it so he just enjoys this line:

 

_“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.”_

 

Arthur’s bustling around the lab, readying supplies. He doesn’t notice Eames enter and Eames takes the opportunity to look at him, really look at him.

 

From day one, Eames thought his TA was handsome. He remembers walking into class on syllabus day and a hot rush thrashing through him at the sight of his handsome TA. Any premature fantasy of dropping the class was dead: his TA was hot enough to motivate Eames through a semester.

 

The lecture overall has two TAs, actually. Arthur Something (Eames would have to look up his last name on the syllabus and he lost that the first month of class) and Dominic Cobb. Eames had all but prayed he’d get Arthur for his TA.

 

Score.

 

Eames watches Arthur move from table to table. He’s not wearing a jumper today. Just a well-fitted shirt and some maroon chinos. It’s a testament to Arthur’s good looks that Eames can get this excited in a room that smells like formaldehyde.

 

Arthur catches Eames looking when he sets up is table. They make direct eye contact as Arthur lays out his gloves, a handout, worksheet and a grey pig brain floating in an open tray. Eames winks at him and Arthur maybe-smiles. He looks away before Eames can tell.

 

Once the lab begins, Arthur circulates around the room and checks in with individual teams. Eames tries to focus on the instructions for the lab, but every time Arthur talks to another student or turns away, Eames feels a flash of cold jealousy. Cold, because the sensation it sends through his skin and cold because it's irrational. Eames attempts to shove it down.

 

Lab today is dissecting pig brains and Eames’ lab partner is absent. He can fill out the worksheet alone, but Arthur checks in after about fifteen minutes. He stands behind Eames, one hand on the desk to his left. For a moment, Eames can smell Arthur’s dial soap before the scent is awash in formaldehyde again.

 

“Find the Sensory Strip yet?”

 

Arthur’s voice is that low, low timbre and Eames suddenly remembers he might have had a dream about him last night. A quasi-sex dream that Eames remembers better in colors: a palette of mustard yellow and brown and the soft skin of Arthur’s thighs.

 

Dirty, Eames grins. “I think I found yours on Friday.”

 

Arthur doesn’t say anything, but his expression darkens. He turns away to help another student. He doesn’t round back to Eames’ table until the end of class. Even then, it’s just to pick up his worksheet.

 

Eames considers the possibility that he might have offended Arthur. 

 

On the bus home, he checks his email via phone on the off-chance Arthur might email him. He doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

And it all seems to be over. Eames has an essay due on Monday for his theater class—an unexpectedly challenging course—so he takes the weekend to work on that. He resurfaces on Wednesday for PSYCH 1010 lecture.

 

Business as normal with one exception. Usually he’s content to arrive to class in his usual bro uniform: deep cut tank, sweatpants, flat bill. Today, he’s in his one of two suit jackets—brown tweed, thrifted and he likes the loose fit—and his only pair of slacks.

 

He sits in his usual seat, front of the class across from where Arthur usually sits at the front of the class.

 

Arthur’s the one who changes the script. He strides in, scarfed and Starbucked, then sits on the opposite side of the lecture hall. He doesn’t even glance at Eames.

 

While the professor explains Freud for the umpteenth time, Eames scrolls through his options. A) Go about his normal life and call it quits on this one, on Arthur, or B) Do everything possible to achieve Arthur’s attention.

 

Arthur is taking notes in one of his black Moleskines. At some point Dominic Cobb, the other TA for this course, leans over and whispers something in his ear. Arthur cracks a smile, writes something down, and shows it to Cobb. They both grin.

 

All Eames wants—all he’s ever wanted before he even knew how to want, before he even knew he wanted this—is to make Arthur smile at him like that.

 

Eames has no choice but option B.

 

* * *

 

 

The month goes something like this: Arthur ignores Eames. Eames goes to class, answers every question the professor poses—whether he knows the answer or not, whether he listened to the question or not—and turns in truly inspired lab reports and essays.

 

Arthur’s comments on these essays are overwhelmingly positive. He compliments Eames on his research, his mastery of the discipline’s composition style. One note, in blocky lettering, praises him for “the best work by any student” that he has “seen all year.”

 

Secretly, Eames glows in the light of these comments.

 

Because in class and in lab, Arthur wholesale ignores Eames. Well, perhaps “ignores” isn’t quite the word. If Eames raises his hand for a question, Arthur answers it. If he turns in a lab worksheet, Arthur thanks him. But they don’t make eye contact. Arthur doesn’t even quirk a smile at him like he does for other students.

 

So Eames shrinks a little. Though he’s made several plans to talk to Arthur after class or lab, each time he baulks. That same unknown reason, Eames supposes.

 

Worst of all, Arthur is nearing the end of the memoir. Though it’s not a long book, Arthur is inching through the pages slowly. And as he reads, Eames sees his opportunity to talk to Arthur dwindling.

 

So, after Wednesday lab, Eames takes his chance. Arthur always stays at the end of lab, waiting for every student to exit before he does. At first, Eames didn’t notice this tendency; Eames is always the first student out of class, more likely to ask the instructor for help via email than awkward conversation after lab. It wasn’t until he cultivated this near-obsession with Arthur that he realized this opportunity.

 

So today, Eames stays. He listens to a classmate tell Arthur about her thoughts on Jung (more like, her bragging about having recently read Jung) and then another beg Arthur for an extension. And then another clarify a point in today’s lab. And then one more ask what day the final report was due.

 

Meanwhile, Eames sits on a lab stool, just outside the halo of students that surround Arthur. As the crowd dwindles, Arthur glances over to Eames. Curious, but not concerned.

 

Five students remain, Arthur checks in with Eames again. This time, Eames is satisfied to realize he can decipher Arthur’s expression from the purse of his lips and the directness of his stare. He’s wondering what Eames is doing here, pre-emptively angry about a potential attack.

 

Three students. Arthur’s eyes are hard and serious. He seems to convey to Eames that he better go or else. Eames recrosses his legs.

 

The final student and Arthur doesn’t make eye contact with Eames again. Instead he heads for his bag to pack up his things. Eames approaches the desk, waiting for Arthur to acknowledge him.

 

He doesn’t. Instead, he makes for the door.

 

“Turn off the lights when you leave,” Arthur says to Eames, not looking at him.

 

Eames steps into his path. Not enough so that he cannot leave, but he’d have to obviously step around him to do so.

 

“The center cannot hold,” Eames says.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“ _The Center Cannot Hold_ ,” Eames repeats, and gestures to Arthur’s bookbag. “By Elyn Saks? It’s a fantastic memoir. How are you liking it?” He’s rehearsed this line in his head since Monday, while he watched Arthur from across the lecture hall.

 

Arthur’s expression is blank. Eames guesses he’s stunned; this isn’t what he expected from Eames today.

 

“Yes,” he says carefully and sets his bookbag on the desk, pulling out his copy. “You’ve read it?”

 

“Last semester.”

 

“Assigned for a class?” Arthur’s tone verges on dismissive and Eames rankles.

 

“No, I have the occasional thought outside of academia.”

 

Arthur pauses and for a moment Eames believes he’s accidentally offended him. Again. The first time was over a poorly constructed inneundo. Now's he's offended him with preventable prickliness. Eames isn't this terrible at dating, at picking dates up. Is he?

 

Then Arthur laughs. “Fair enough. I’m sorry.” He flips the book over in his hands, skimming the back cover. “My specialty isn’t in psychosis,” he says softly, “and I wanted to understand patients better.”

 

“That’s a great book for that,” Eames says, not as intelligently as he had wanted. “She’s got such a voice.”

 

Arthur nods, contemplating. Then he tucks his book away and shoulders the bag. “I hope you realize we can’t talk about…” He trails off and, for the first time since that Friday night, Arthur looks truly uncertain. Imbalanced as Eames has felt the past month. "...Friday," he finishes.

 

Eames decides to cut him a break. “I understand,” he says, easily. Seeing Arthur look like that…maybe Eames is ready to let this go…after a night of heavy drinking and inebriated weeping over Yusef’s shoulder.

 

Then Arthur changes direction. “Not here anyway,” he says, his voice low and promising.

 

A vision of Arthur on the fraternity floor. Of his hips beneath Eames’ fingers. Eames core feels hot and his limbs feel frozen.

 

“Turn off the light when you leave,” Arthur reminds Eames and closes the door.

 

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Saturday night and Eames is starting to lose hope. He just got his lab worksheet back from Arthur and, though the grade was good, there wasn’t a single comment on the entire assignment.

 

He isn’t in the mood to go out, like he thought he would be, and he’s not even in the mood to be around his brothers. He tries to go to bed early—11 o’clock—but wakes up at 1 AM, sweating from yet another sex dream about Arthur.

 

He’s twelve again and this is the first time he’s seen a naked woman in a magazine. Neurologically speaking, repetitive thinking drives grooves through neural patterns. Like treading the same path over and over again until there is a pathway for that route. It’s all he can think about. He wakes up in the morning, skin damp and raw. His head hurts from considering Arthur's mouth, from obsessing over what his face looks like when he comes. Arthur is all he can think of, all his body and brain are made for. And he wants it to stop.

 

In his sweatpants, a bro-tank (the kind with the arm holes ripped down to the ribcage), and a zip hoodie, Eames steals Nash’s car and heads to the library. On the ride over, he obsesses about the dream.

 

This time he can picture Arthur clearly sprawled over Eames’ bed. Fully clothed, but for his unbuttoned jeans. A hot blush under his collar and over his cheeks and nose. Eames’ palm, the broad heel of his palm, pressed against the parted zipper. He can feel the zipper’s teeth framing soft cotton. And then Arthur hard underneath.

 

Eames pulls into his parking space in a daze. The night is cold, but inside the library the heaters are rushing hot air through the aisles.

 

At 1:30 AM, there aren’t many students in the library. As Eames sleepily ascends the stairs, with each floor there are less students. By the time he reaches the stacks, the lights are dim and Eames cannot hear anything. Nothing at all. Perfect silence.

 

And so Eames must be developing a sixth sense just for Arthur, because he knows instantly that Arthur is somewhere on this floor, somewhere in this completely quiet room.

 

Sure enough, there he is. Arthur is seated in one of the deep windowsills where the librarians have kindly provided a sleeping mat and pillows. He’s reading _The Center Cannot Hold_ and it looks like he’s finally finishing it.

 

Eames wants to consider his options and stay out of Arthur’s periphery, but as always Arthur seems to know when he’s being watched. His attention startles up to Eames.

 

They meet eyes for a moment. Eames has the distinct memory of encountering a wild fox for the first time, watching each other motionless and waiting for the other.

 

It is Arthur who breaks the tension. “You’ve been following me,” Arthur says and his perfectly regular speaking volume sounds like shouting across the abandoned floor.

 

The volume of his voice clarifies for Eames what his foggy brain was just beginning to piece together: they are really and truly alone.

 

“I think I’m just lucky,” Eames says. He moves towards Arthur. The quiet of the library presses against his ears and he feels as if he’s moving through outer space—limbs weightless and silent.

 

“That seems likely,” Arthur says. His book is on his lap now and he’s shifting to face Eames. He stands.

 

“We’re not in class anymore,” Eames says. He rests a hand on Arthur’s hip, testing. He’s relieved with Arthur only leans closer.

 

Arthur rests a hand on the back of Eames’ neck. All of Eames’ skin sings under the attention of Arthur’s. “I’m a bad TA,” Arthur says. His tone is grim, self-berating.

 

“The worst,” Eames agrees.

 

Arthur laughs. “If it helps, I’ve already graded everything I’m responsible for. The professors grade the final reports.”

 

“I don’t care,” Eames says and presses a kiss to the side of Arthur’s neck, against the strong column of his throat.

 

“I didn’t know that was your fraternity…that night when I—“

 

“I don’t feel particularly manipulated.”

 

“Coerced?” Arthur tries, tone still serious though his head lolls to the side, allowing Eames’ mouth.

 

“Not that I recall.”

 

“Unsafe?”

 

Eames just laughs. Arthur gives him a stare. Eames is familiar with this stare from the laboratory environment. He uses it when students aren’t careful with expensive university equipment.

 

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur says. “Be serious.”

 

“I’ll be serious when I’m old,” Eames counters. “As old as you, maybe.”

 

And then, simple as if it were a regular thing and not a miracle: Arthur laughs. He laughs and then, after that first small miracle, Arthur’s mouth brushes against Eames’ and they’re kissing in the library. They’re really, actually kissing in the library. And the kissing sends off a chain reaction of incredible miracles.

 

As Arthur pulls Eames between the shelves, Eames cannot believe that this is happening to him. And when Eames’ hands cup under the pockets of Arthur’s jeans, those hands don’t feel real. They don’t feel real when they lift Arthur against the bookshelf, pinning his body between the dusty book spines and the heft of Eames’ body.

 

It’s surreal and he loses himself, groaning aloud when Arthur kisses his neck. The kiss becomes a bite to silence the moan and when Eames’ remembers where he is, he laughs. The books smell like dust and that sweet vanilla smell of old paper.

 

“Sorry, darling.” Eames lowers Arthur to the ground, but keeps his body close. “Different kind of audience this time.”

 

“An audience is what I want to avoid.”

 

Eames doesn’t answer. He’s suddenly remembered that Arthur is wearing clothes and needs to know what it’s like to undress him; he didn’t get to undress him last time. He deserves this experience.

 

With great interest, Eames thumbs open Arthur’s jeans and drags his zipper down slowly. Watching the teeth open to the thin fabric of Arthur’s briefs. He wants to press his mouth there and suck through the fabric until wet and clinging to the dimpled bulb of Arthur’s dick.

 

Eames has to shake his head. As he was contemplating, he had been kneading Arthur’s ass through his jeans and now Arthur was staring at him curiously. His mouth was drawn into an uncertain smile, trying to read Eames’ expression.

 

Arthur reaches into his back pocket and produces a condom. Eames takes it with light fingers, still not feeling fully attached to his body.

 

 “I’m going to take these off now, alright?” Arthur says, tone lightly mocking. It sparks a fire low in Eames’ stomach. So when Arthur’s jeans slide off his hips, Eames scoops him up before they can even reach his knees.

 

Arthur’s legs are folded to the side, pinned up by one of Eames’ arms. His eyes are momentarily wide with surprise, until settling into that same self-satisfied slant.

 

Though Arthur says nothing, Eames preemptively shuts him up with a kiss so bruising that he can feel Arthur’s teeth against his own.

 

Getting inside Arthur is heaven. Arthur is tight, but unflinching. Eames watches himself tuck inside Arthur, watches his flesh accommodate him. The sight of his cock sinking into Arthur, slow and inevitable, makes him dizzy. He wants to make him take more, take bigger.

 

Curious, Eames presses the tip of his thumb alongside his cock, testing against Arthur’s rim. He looks up to check his expression and is surprised to see Arthur staring back at him. He’s been watching Eames’ face—his sweating, flushed cheeks and mouth agape—this whole time.

 

“Can I?” he rasps. His head is swimming.

 

Arthur nods and Eames presses his thumb inside, pulling against the rim to see how much it can take. He has the brief, startling image of that hole stretched around his wrist, shiny with slick and Eames’ spit.

 

“Fuck,” he says with conviction and his thumb retreats.

 

It’s almost all too much. Except it isn’t and Eames drives into him. Hard.

 

Arthur cries out, then muffles it with a bite around the heel of his hand. Eames pulls out slowly, just to watch Arthur’s face react to the loss. His mouth draws up with want as he attempts to grind back down on Eames’ cock.

 

Eames doesn’t let him. Instead, grinds his length against his hole not quite pushing inside.

 

“Cock tease,” Arthur spits out between harsh breaths.

 

“Only because you’re so dirty for it,” Eames whispers back. He has seen Arthur laugh and now he wants to see him lose composure.

 

Eames sets a new rhythm: quick thrusts upwards, loosening his grip on Arthur so that he bounces each time Eames drills into him. Eames can feel Arthur’s hard cock between them, but he can’t spare a hand. Arthur will have to come from just this.

 

So he decides to help him out. Eames tucks his lips against Arthur’s ear, voice a soft murmur, “I want to do this in your office.”

 

Arthur’s breath comes out in a shudder.

 

Eames takes this as a good sign. Works a hand under Arthur’s ass, fingers tucked against where Eames fits inside him. He can feel himself moving this way, but more importantly: he can feel Arthur’s hole clench and flutter against him.

 

“Want to leave the door open. Want to—ugh—“ He bottoms out inside Arthur, seeing stars for a moment. He grips Arthur harder, clinging to him like he’ll keep them both upright. “—to bend you over your desk so you can watch your students pass.”

 

He can imagine it: a hand in Arthur’s hair, forcing his head up so he has to watch people walk by his office door. Students, professors. All of them could see Eames fucking Arthur. Anyone could see them now, could know that Arthur was Eames’ TA.

 

Arthur makes another sound then and Eames snaps back to watch his face. The sight sends hot waves plummeting down his spine, shooting into his toes.

 

His face is pink, flushed all over in hectic splotches. His mouth is slack, dumb with pleasure. But when he and Eames stare at each other, Arthur’s dark eyes are sharp, hungry. Then, when Eames slowly drags his cock out and then slams his whole body into him…Arthur’s eyelids flicker and his eyes roll back in overwhelmed pleasure.

 

Is this what he had looked like in the frat house basement? Did everyone see Eames make Arthur look so wrecked?

 

Eames comes. He wraps his arm tight around him, folding Arthur in complete half—knees against his ear, the fabric of his jeans pooled against his temple and Arthur turns his head to bite into the thick denim because it muffles the sharp, shocky sounds he’s making—and this angle drives him even deeper into Arthur.

 

He feels, rather than sees, Arthur come—a rhythmic tightening pulse around Eames, and a slow damp warmth gathering between them.

 

Arthur is gasping for breath and Eames loosens his grip. He holds him until his breath evens out and then guides his feet to the floor, settles Arthur back into his jeans before buttoning up his own.

 

For all his wit, Arthur is quiet now as he stares at Eames in unbashful satisfaction. It takes Eames a close study of Arthur’s mouth to realize that he’s smiling. Lips parted, just barely quirked up at the edge. Smiling.

 

And then, since Eames was already smirking at Arthur, they just stand there for a moment—smiling.

 

It’s Eames who breaks the silence. “I just realized something. You’re not actually my TA anymore.”

 

“Technically, I am: your grades haven’t been processed,” Arthur says and Eames doesn’t know how he manages to form sentences like these when his shirt is soaked with come. “They should be processed by Friday.”

 

Eames surrenders his hoodie to Arthur, which Arthur accepts and dons without question. “Then you won’t be my TA when I take you out on Friday.”

 

Arthur’s smile fades into a curious, bald appraisal of Eames. “Really?” he says. “I thought that being your TA was my main appeal.”

 

“You have other appeals.” Eames shrugs, looks away. “Eight o’clock? I can pick you up.”

 

With a light touch to Eames’ shoulder, Arthur reclaims his attention. He shakes his head. “No. I’ll pick you up.” He says this with a touch of a smile. “I’ve already been to where you live.”

 

Eames laughs and thinks about ways to take Arthur back to the house tonight. This time, to his own room.

 

 


End file.
